On the farther side there are
gardens--gardens that have in their midst those quietest things in all
the world and most windless, box-hedges and ponds. The gardens take
shelter behind the scared and hurried ilex woods, and the sea-wind spares
them and breaks upon the mountain. But the garden also is his, and his
wild warm days have filled it with orange-trees and roses, and have given
all the abundant charm to its gay neglect, to its grass-grown terraces,
and to all its lapsed, forsaken, and forgotten dainties.
Nothing of the nature in this seaward Italy would be so beautiful without
the touch of man and of the sea gales.
When the south-west wind brings his rain he brings it with the majestic
onset announced by his breath. And when the light follows, it comes from
his own doorway in the verge. His are the opened evenings after a day
shut down with cloud. He fills the air with innumerable particles of
moisture that scatter and bestow the sun. There are no other days like
his, of so universal a harmony, so generous.
The north wind has his own landscape, too; but the east wind never.
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